Five Times Sherlock Needed Mycroft's Number
by Grac3
Summary: ...and one time he needed John's. See warnings inside.
1. Slipping

**Warning:** References to drug use

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock**

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Chapter 1 – Slipping

It had been too long. It was nearing a month since any case was interesting enough even to grab his attention, let alone to inspire him to leave the flat. His boredom had started exactly three weeks, five days, twenty hours and fifty-three minutes ago. He was used to the boredom; that wasn't the problem.

The problem was that it was nearing its final stage.

Sherlock's boredom had always developed in stages, each one easier to deal with the number of times he experienced it. The first stage was irritability. This was the one that John seemed to hate the most, though that was probably only because it was the one that he had to endure the most often. In the first stage, he would get snippy and shout at everything – even trees; he had once complained that one was 'too green'. Even now he still wasn't entirely sure what he had meant by that.

The second stage was the experiments. For this, he needed to venture out of the flat, for – despite his constant insistence that it was needed – Bart's refused to offer a delivery service for body parts. So he would leave the comfort and boredom of 221b, and hail a taxi bound for the hospital. He would come back with various body parts – eyes, ears, a head – and begin the experiments. He could hardly remember the last time that he had managed to finish an experiment, for usually half way through, a case would call for his attention and the experiment would be left festering and forgotten in the kitchen – again, much to the doctor's annoyance.

The third stage was the need to use patches. Patches were used most often during cases themselves. The kick of nicotine helped him to focus when, when a particularly irksome piece of information seemed determined to remain hidden from him. Yet when the third stage hit, he needed the same kick to stop himself going completely insane.

The third stage had ended exactly five hours, twenty-eight minutes and three seconds ago. Now, he was at the mercy of the fourth and final stage. The most dangerous stage.

He needed drugs.

"_I'm clean!"_

"_Is your flat?"_

He hadn't said anything in response to the Detective Inspector's question, because he didn't feel right lying in front of John at that particular time, and he couldn't admit the truth to the makeshift drugs squad. The drugs were hidden in the violin, accessible only by the utilising of tools and a very steady hand. The police would never have found them, but he knew where they were, and right at that moment – 1:15am (and eighteen seconds) – they were calling to him.

He couldn't answer that call. He wanted to, oh how he wanted to, but he couldn't. He couldn't disappoint his army doctor. John knew of his former – and current – problem with cocaine, he had done since the fake drugs bust on the evening that he had moved in. Since that night, Sherlock had left the violin alone, and he could now forget what was hiding within it when he played it at all hours. Since John had moved in, though the correlation was not statistically plausible, the time between cases had never stretched long enough for him to reach the fourth stage. As a result, the doctor had yet to experience it. And Sherlock would like to keep it that way.

John was upstairs, asleep, blissfully unaware of the turmoil his flatmate was in on the sofa just down the stairs. Sherlock briefly entertained the idea of asking the doctor for help. But that would mean that John would see him _like this_, and that was not something that the detective ever thought he would be able to live with.

In the end, he had no choice.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Myc," he gasped, using the nickname he only ever uttered in stage four. "I… I… help me."

"Where are you?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock knew that it wasn't a ridiculous question; the last time stage four had hit, he had waited until he was already high in an alley in a backstreet of Covent Garden before contacting his brother.

"Baker Street," he answered. "I haven't taken anything. Yet."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you."

The phone line went dead.


	2. Falling

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock**

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Chapter 2 – Falling

The inside of the telephone booth was unbearably hot compared to the icy cold of the outside world. The door slammed shut behind him, effectively locking him inside; he wouldn't be able to push it open again in his state. He reached for the telephone and dialled the number that he mercifully remembered off by heart.

"Mycroft Holmes," the voice on the other end said.

"Mycroft, I n-need some help," Sherlock stuttered through his chattering teeth.

"Why aren't you using your phone?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

He had been running through London, the killer almost getting away, but Sherlock was faster. The streets were empty this late at night, the only real sound being the very distant traffic and their own footsteps and panting.

The killer took an unexpected left turn, rushing onto Westminster Bridge. Sherlock almost didn't make the turn fast enough, crashing into the wall of the bridge before continuing his pursuit. He ignored the sudden pain and persevered, nearing the killer as he got closer to the iconic Eye.

Suddenly, the killer reached into his pocket, and Sherlock knew what he was doing, but didn't have enough time to react. His target pulled a gun, and rounded on the detective.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his arms raised. He wasn't surrendering, but in the off chance that the known killer just happened to decide to shoot, it would be a lot easier to convince him to change his mind if he thought that his victim was no longer a threat.

The killer took a step forward, the gun still raised between his eyes. Sherlock stood his ground.

"Who are you?"

Sherlock smirked. "You don't know?"

The killer frowned. "You're with the police," he said. "You're after me. I could get sent to prison because of you."

"No," Sherlock disagreed, "you're going to get sent to prison because you murdered your ex-wife and her parents."

"She had it coming!" the killer roared, and surged forward in a fit of fury. He crashed into the detective, shoving him against the wall and leaning him over the edge.

Sherlock fought back against him, swiftly changing his position so that the killer was now hanging over the watery depths. He pushed him back farther until he was practically lying on top of the bridge wall, one hand clasped around the detective's lapel and the other holding onto his gun.

"Let go!"

"Drop the gun!"

_Bang!_

The gunshot rang through the air, and the killer's expression changed. In the struggle, the gun had been turned around, and was now facing his own chest. He looked down at the spreading crimson on his torso, before meeting the detective's eyes with an almost pleading expression.

He began to tip over the edge, but in his last moments of life his countenance became furious. In a feat of strength that could only have been fuelled by the adrenaline surging around his body trying to find a way to keep him alive, his grip tightened and he pulled Sherlock over the edge with him.

Half an hour later, the detective was effectively washed up on the banks of the Thames, coughing, spluttering, and freezing. By some miracle he was both alive and conscious, and – in the knowledge that the river water would have destroyed his phone – headed for the nearest telephone booth.

"I fell in the Thames," he answered his brother, now finding it difficult to remain upright.

"Where is Dr Watson?"

"I left him at home, I didn't need him for this one."

"Clearly you did. Where are you?" Mycroft asked, in the business-like tone that he only reserved for matters of ultimate urgency.

"Don't you know?" Sherlock gasped, leaning against the wall of the telephone booth for support; his vision was beginning to blur, and the cold was seeping into his very core.

"Are you saying you don't know where you are?" There was a pause. "Never mind, we've found the signal. Stay awake."

Sherlock chuckled, but it turned into a cough. The shaking was making it hard to hold the phone to his ear, and he could feel the darkness clouding over him.

"Thank you," he gasped, as he slid to the floor.


	3. Listening

**A.N.:** I would just like to apologise in advance that this chapter is basically one massive cliché. Based on the character of the criminal, it seems that he would be stupid enough to do his business in such an obvious place.

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock**

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Chapter 3 – Listening

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Hello, brother," Sherlock smirked.

"Sherlock! How is the case going?"

"Very well. In fact, I'm about to have a conversation I think you might want to hear."

"Be careful," the elder warned as the younger placed his phone back in his pocket. In return for picking him up after his dunking in the Thames, Mycroft had forced a case on him: an underground organised crime group who were targeting very public, very supposedly well-secured buildings all over London. For once, Sherlock didn't completely resent the case from his brother; it was proving rather interesting.

He exited the alleyway and turned the corner, faced with the entrance of the club where he would be having his 'conversation'. The bouncer looked him up and down, raised his hand to his earpiece and listened to whatever his boss was telling him over it, then nodded to let the detective through. In the past two weeks since he had taken the case, he had already become a member of the gang leader's Inner Circle, apparently because his skill made him very useful. While he never assisted in the actual crimes, it was amusing to make the criminals believe that he had been helping them the entire time.

The inside of the club was dark with strobe lights flashing in various neon colours, illuminating the customers who were dancing to the deep bass pounding through the speakers.

None of these people interested Sherlock, however. Instead, he turned away from the stinking, sweaty dance floor and headed for a staircase hidden behind a bead curtain that appeared colourless in the darkness. He ascended to an open doorway at the top of the staircase, beyond which his 'business appointment' was waiting for him with a number of other people, all seated around a poker table.

"Ha! Here he is!" cried the leader of the gang, grinning and rising from his seat. He gestured to someone on his left. Another bouncer emerged from the corner of the room and approached the detective. Sherlock sighed as he raised his arms for the bouncer to check him for wires.

"Hmm?" the bouncer hummed as he felt something in his pocket. He nodded at Sherlock to empty the pocket. The detective pulled out his phone, the screen locked but the call still connected. The bouncer shot an inquisitive look round at the gang leader, who nodded.

"It's just his phone, we all have them!" And he pulled his own mobile out from his pocket as if to prove his point. The bouncer nodded and stepped back to his corner.

Sherlock sat down in the seat at the poker table offered to him as the gang leader began shuffling a deck of cards.

"Do you play?" he asked the detective, beginning to deal out cards.

"I dabble," he lied; it would not bode well for him if he played to his real ability, so he would have to – annoyingly – pretend that he was worse at the game than he was.

"So, have you heard about our new plan?" the gang leader asked smugly once the cards were dealt. "It's all ready to go."

"I knew you had a new plan," Sherlock answered, "I do not know what it is." That wasn't entirely true; he was almost certain that he had worked out what the gang's next target was, but Mycroft needed to hear it from the man's lips.

The gang leader laughed. "He doesn't know what it is!" He looked round at the other players, who each laughed at his joke when his gaze fell on them. The room settled back into silence. "The man who can tell your life story from your left thumb doesn't know what our next plan is. Doesn't my necklace give you the clue?" He lifted his large gold chain. "Or my sunglasses?" He gestured to his dark sunglasses.

Sherlock smiled thinly, but didn't respond.

The gang leader laughed again. He leaned forward over the table and whispered, "The Bank of England." He sat back and guffawed.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "The Bank of England?" he asked. "So far you've gone after the National Portrait Gallery and Buckingham Palace. You're an art thief, what do you want with the Bank of England?"

"You think I stole those paintings to sell them? Just like the police do?" the gang leader chuckled. "They're searching all the known black market sales, trying to find those paintings," he told the other poker players, who smirked at the idiocy of the Met. The gang leader turned back to Sherlock. "No, I stole them because I like art.

"But," he continued, throwing a chip into the centre of the table, "what's the point of having all these beautiful paintings if you ain't got somewhere to hang them?" Sherlock bit back the urge to correct his grammar. "So that's what I need the dough for. Need a mansion, don't I? To hang the paintings."

"So where are you keeping the paintings now?" Sherlock asked smoothly.

"Got a shipping container in Dover I'm keeping them all," the gang leader explained. "Well, about five actually. Some of those paintings are _massive_."

"So… Bank of England?" Sherlock repeated, just in case his brother hadn't caught that bit yet.

"Yupp," the gang leader nodded confidently. "Tomorrow night. You coming?"

"No, sorry," Sherlock declined. "I've got a date."

The gang leader chuckled suggestively.

Sherlock said nothing.

Two hours later, when he was finally out of the club – the gang leader having revealed a lot more of his plan to rob the Bank the next night – Sherlock retrieved his phone from his pocket.

"Did you get all of that?"

"Yes. Thank you."


	4. Flirting

**Warning:** Some mild sexual content...ish

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock**

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Chapter 4 – Flirting

"Are you sure this is the place?"

"I'm certain."

Sherlock took off towards the massive nightclub at a pace which John had to jog to keep up with. The club, with its walls painted a pale pink that was just barely visible in the darkness, was over three storeys, each with flashing lights streaming out of the windows. It looked almost like a fireworks display against the dark of the night.

"Who are we looking for?" John asked as he caught up with the detective on the other side of the road.

"Melissa Heim," Sherlock answered smoothly. "Tepfer's ex. She may be able to shed some light on his whereabouts."

"And she's going to be here? Tonight?" he asked as Sherlock slipped something which looked suspiciously like his half of the rent to the bouncer to let them in. The detective nodded. "And you know this how?"

"Facebook," he answered. John looked up at him, incredulous. "What?" he asked innocently.

"You're on Facebook?" the doctor smirked.

"Well… I can hack Facebook," Sherlock supplied, making his way swiftly through the crowds to where a group of girls were dancing.

"Excuse me," he began as he reached them, adopting his confident but human persona. By now, John had seen the transformation many times, but it still never failed to unnerve him slightly. The girls stopped dancing to look at the man who had interrupted them. The two farthest away from them began whispering to each other excitedly.

"Yeah?" the woman John recognised as Melissa Heim from the police photos asked. She was wearing a bright pink nylon crop top with an equally short, pink nylon skirt over fishnet stockings. On her feet was a pair of luscious red stilettos.

"I was just wondering if you'd like a drink," Sherlock smirked at her and offered her his arm. Several of her friends giggled and urged her to go with him.

"Alright," she sighed, and took the arm that was offered to her. Sherlock took her over to the bar but didn't order anything. The persona dropped, he eyed her with a steely expression.

"Tell me, do you know anything about where your ex-boyfriend is?"

Melissa giggled. "Frank?" she squeaked. "Why are you asking me about my ex?" She gasped, her expression changing as her eyes widened in recognition. "I know you! You're Sherlock Holmes, that detective bloke. What do you want with me?"

"Your ex-boyfriend is on the run from murdering someone," Sherlock hissed, "and I know you know where he is."

Melissa only chuckled. "I'm sure I don't."

"Don't pretend with me, Miss Heim, if you know who I am then you know perfectly well that I can tell you know where he is."

Melissa looked Sherlock up and down, biting her lip. Despite the fact that Sherlock was being very intimidating, she didn't seem to be too bothered by the sudden rudeness of the man who had a few minutes ago been offering her a drink.

She paused before she met his eyes. "Okay," she began cautiously, a playful tone to her voice that reminded John almost creepily of Irene. "I'll tell you what I know. _If_," she held up a hand to silence the detective before he started barraging her with questions, "you give me your number."

Sherlock regarded her carefully for a moment. John was convinced that Sherlock was going to tell her that the number was on the website, but in a night that had already contained the pair of them giving away half of their rent, time spent in a loud and suffocating club such as this one, and the knowledge that the world's only consulting detective was on Facebook, even he wasn't too surprised by what happened next.

"Alright," Sherlock smirked. "Do you have a pen?"

Melissa chuckled and retrieved one from the front of her crop top, handing it to the detective. Sherlock took the pen and wrote the number on the inside of her forearm before returning it. Melissa looked it over approvingly before tucking the pen away again and looking back up at him.

"So what do you want to know?"

~{G}~

It was only a couple of days before the texts started coming in.

_Sherlock, why do I keep getting sordid texts from some woman? – Mycroft Holmes_

_Did you give this woman my number? – Mycroft Holmes_

**_17 missed calls from Mycroft Holmes_**

_SHERLOCK!_


	5. Searching

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock**

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Chapter 5 – Searching

The cab had to pull up two streets away from the address. Continuing the journey on foot, Sherlock and John passed through the streets, empty apart from policeman and sooty members of the public being tended to by paramedics. The reason became apparent when they turned the final corner.

Standing alone was a wreckage of a building, smoking ominously as the fires that had been previously blazing within it had since been put out. They were twenty feet away when Lestrade reached them.

"Bomb?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," Lestrade sighed. "Luckily, there were no casualties; we got all two hundred and thirty three people out."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Two hundred and thirty three?"

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded, looking slightly confused.

"I suppose you have a list of the people you pulled?" the detective asked, a hint of impatience in his voice.

"Uh…" Lestrade was now looking thoroughly perplexed, but he summoned a list of the rescued people at once from a passing officer and handed it to the detective.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the list so fast that his eyes became a blur. He flipped the pages over noisily, his distaste increasing with every name he read. In the end, he thrust the document back into the hands of the stunned Detective Inspector and looked up at the wreckage.

"You didn't get everyone," he concluded, starting for the building. John and Lestrade hurried to catch up.

"Wait!" Lestrade called, but Sherlock did not slow down. "What are you talking about?"

"You didn't get everyone," Sherlock repeated, though he did not look back and continued striding towards the wreckage at the same pace.

"No, that's impossible," Lestrade told him, rushing to catch up with the taller man. "We checked the entire building twice for people before we even considered calling you. We have got everyone out."

Sherlock stopped and shot Lestrade such a venomous look that the Detective Inspector actually recoiled slightly.

"You did _not_ get everyone."

With that, he turned and continued on his way.

"Wait! Sherlock, it's not safe in there!"

The detective didn't listen and entered the building, leaving the Detective Inspector and the doctor no choice but to follow him in. The building was teeming with people – mainly police – all sorting through piles of rubble for evidence as to where the bomb could be, or who could have planted it.

"Tell them to stop what they're doing," Sherlock ordered Lestrade when he stopped in the lobby of the ruined building.

"Now, wait here, I can't do that!"

"Yes you can, and you will, there is someone else in this building who needs to be found."

Sherlock was not looking at either of his two companions, but glancing furtively around for any signs of the person whom he believed to still be in the building.

"Sherlock-"

"I need quiet," the detective interrupted, pausing in his search to glare at various people who walked passed barking orders at each other.

"Sherlock, there is no one left in this building."

A thunderous expression appeared in the detective's eyes. He turned on his heel and grabbed Lestrade by the lapels of his coat. "You would not have called me unless you trusted my skill, which at present is telling me that there is someone else inside this building. I cannot begin my search with all this noise around, so I will only ask this once more. Tell – them – to – stop."

Lestrade stared, wide-eyed, for a moment, unsure of how to react. "Uh," he stuttered. "A-alright. Everyone, stop what you're doing!"

His voice rang through the empty shell of the building, ricocheting of the walls and echoing around so that everyone could hear. Gradually, the echoes died away along with the sounds of their working.

Sherlock turned away, releasing the Detective Inspector, and pulled out his phone. He pressed a few buttons and held it out, as though it were some kind of detector.

There was a pause, and then a ringing: a phone was ringing somewhere within the building, though it sounded very far off.

Sherlock took off at a run in the direction of the noise, adrenaline pumping through his veins; because, after all, phones still worked even when their owners did not. He could hear the thundering footfalls of his two companions behind them, but did not pay attention to them. He only needed to focus on the ringing.

The noise became louder as he reached its source, and in less than a minute he was faced with a pile of rubble in a doorway that connected the lobby with a corridor beyond, seemingly innocent apart from the destructive way in which it had come to be there. Lying next to the pile was a ringing mobile phone.

Sherlock dropped to his knees by the pile of rubble, and began feverishly tearing bricks and other debris from it, discarding them on the floor beside him. He was vaguely aware of Lestrade and John reaching him, the younger kneeling down next to him while the older stood back.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John was asking. He sounded very far away.

"The bomb was timed perfectly," Sherlock was explaining, his mouth working without his brain's permission. How dare it waste energy when all of his drive needed to be utilised in uncovering the body – no, not body; in the worst case scenario, he was Schrodinger's cat. "It went off when he was in exactly the right place, to ensure that he wouldn't be found, so that even if he wasn't killed in the initial explosion, he would never receive medical attention in time, or at all…"

He removed a red brick and dropped it to the floor. Underneath, was the first sign that he had been right: a hand, just visible through the wreckage.

The new discovery made the detective even more determined, and he ignored the fact that he was scraping his hands quite severely on the rubble; he now had cuts on his palms, but that didn't matter, for what state would he be in when he was finally found?

One by one the bricks were removed, until the last one was pulled and he finally uncovered the worryingly still, unconscious form of Mycroft Holmes.

"Oh, my God…"

"Paramedics!"

Sherlock didn't know who had said what, but it didn't matter. The face of his brother was too pale, too calm, too…

He reached forward with fingers that he didn't care were shaking slightly, and pressed them to the side of his neck. His heart sank when he didn't feel anything, until-

_Thump-thump_._ Thump-thump_.

"Ha!" he breathed, feeling dizzy with relief. The world seemed to speed up as the first paramedics arrived, laden with various pieces of medical equipment.

Whether it was the sudden noise or the disappearance of the weight of the rubble lying on top of him, Mycroft groaned and opened his eyes. They stared, confused, before he blinked and his eyes fell on his brother.

"Sher- ow." His eyes slipped closed again. His voice sounded hoarse, but that single sentence was one of the most beautiful sounds Sherlock had ever heard.

The next few moments were a rush of hustle and bustle as the paramedics lifted Mycroft onto a stretcher and began to carry him away. Sherlock made to follow, but paused when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see John holding out Mycroft's dusty phone to him.

"Thanks," he smiled, taking the device from his flatmate.


	6. Help

**A.N.:** Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, especially the Guests who I couldn't directly reply to. I really appreciated your comments. I hope you all enjoy the last chapter!

**Warning:** Reference to a disability

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock**

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Chapter 6 – Help

_John? – SH_

"Yes?"

John came out of the kitchen to glare at his flatmate on the sofa, thoroughly annoyed. He was almost ready to throw his phone out of the window – though at this point, he didn't really care which of their phones he used as the missile.

Nobody was sure exactly how it had happened, but their last case had left Sherlock with a broken leg and hysterical mutism. As a result, he had been ordered to rest, only used text messages to communicate, and John was now practically his unpaid servant.

The doctor hadn't minded at first, but over the past few weeks the detective's demands had escalated to the ridiculous. When he had first been allowed to return to Baker Street, he had only required simple things such as that the doctor pass him the television remote. Now, however, John had read to him, collected a bag of assorted fingernails from Bart's, and performed the subsequent experiment with said fingernails on the coffee table while the detective texted him the instructions. He could only guess what was required of him now.

_I'm hungry. – SH_

"You don't eat," John commented drily, looking up from his phone.

Sherlock shot him a disdainful look.

_I'm hungry. – SH_

John sighed. "Fine." He turned back to the kitchen to rummage through the cupboards – which were only full due to the infinite kindness of their not-housekeeper, because Sherlock had decided that if he wasn't allowed out of the flat, then John wasn't either – when his phone beeped again.

_Can we get Chinese? – SH_

John huffed angrily. "No!" he shouted through to the other room. "I am going to make you a sandwich. A healthy, nourishing sandwich."

_We don't have anything to make a sandwich with. – SH_

"Yes we do. We have all the bread and…" John gaped at the bare cupboards. Sherlock was bed-ridden – well, sofa-ridden; his bed had been covered in all kinds of less-than-desirable substances from hydrochloric acid to shampoo, meaning that clearing up his radiation-lab-of-a-bedroom was just another thing that the good doctor had had to take care of. Yet despite not moving from the settee, at least to John's knowledge, he had somehow managed to rid the entire kitchen of all food without the doctor noticing.

_No, we don't. We used the last of the bread in the fingernail experiment. Remember? – SH_

John sighed, opening the fridge – thankfully empty of body parts, for now – and pulled out some eggs. Omelette it was.

"I'm making you an omelette!" he called back through the kitchen door. He couldn't see Sherlock from here, but he was sure that he was scowling.

John was awarded some peace and quiet while he cooked the eggs, but unfortunately it didn't last – not that he'd expected it to. He was almost finished cooking when his phone beeped again.

_Bored. – SH_

"Well, you'll have something to do while you're eating."

_Not hungry. – SH_

John stared dumfounded at the last text. He glanced up at the completed omelette, lovingly created for the invalid. John wasn't the world's best cook, but he was passable, and how dare Sherlock shun his omelette like this? He turned off the hob and stormed out into the living room, seeing red.

"You have got to be kidding me! I have been locked in this flat with you for weeks listening to your moaning, or rather reading it, and you haven't even shown the least bit of gratitude." His voice rang throughout the whole flat, probably through the whole building. Luckily, Mrs Hudson was out.

Sherlock looked startled for a moment, as though he wasn't expecting such an outburst in response to his petulant behaviour.

"I have had enough of it! You _are_ going to eat, and you are going to eat all of it. And I'm going to take your phone so you can't text me until you're finished."

_I could use the note function on your phone. – SH_

"Ha!" John laughed humourlessly. "You think I'd let you anywhere near my phone?"

_I could get it. – SH_

"Really? You could steal my phone? With a broken leg?"

There was silence. Sherlock glared at his plastered leg, and John knew that being at the mercy of his body in this way was probably driving the detective mad, but at that moment in time he was finding it very difficult to be sympathetic.

John didn't wait for the detective to begin typing on his phone again. He turned back into the kitchen, to dish out the food that Sherlock _would_ eat. His phone beeped as he left the kitchen and placed the omelette on the table in front of the detective.

_John? – SH_

"Yes?" John sighed, ready to confiscate the offending device once he had received an answer to his question.

_Thank you. – SH_


End file.
